This Wasn't Ever Going to be Some Epic Love Story
by Rosawyn
Summary: It wasn't ever going to last. They both knew it. (This is a Brock/Steve fic, but apparently Brock isn't even in the list of tag-able characters.)


o0o

**This Wasn't Ever Going to be Some Epic Love Story**

o0o

The first thing Brock ever said to Steve was, "Fuck, you're tiny." He didn't know his name was 'Steve' yet, of course. The bar wasn't one Brock frequented often—the air was always too thick with smoke for his liking, and the floor was perpetually sticky under his shoes. But at least the music wasn't too loud, so that was something.

The scrawny little guy rolled his eyes, shrugging and sliding his glass back and forth on the black painted wood surface of the table. He grinned, wry and crooked. "I'm like Tyrion, except instead of being the 'Halfman', I'm more of the 'three-quarters man'."

Sliding into the stool across from him, Brock grinned. "Are you the god of tits and wine?"

The little guy shook his head, features twisting into a reluctant smile, eyes flashing with appreciation of the shared reference. "Not quite." Then he held out his hand. "Steve Rogers."

Brock squeezed his hand probably a little harder than was strictly polite for someone who looked that frail. Steve didn't seem to mind, though; he just squeezed back harder than most guys twice his size, and his eyes flashed a challenge. Brock grinned. "Brock Rumlow." The more he looked at Steve, the more details he took in—from his mildly sullen blue eyes to the delicate shape of his cheekbones to the graceful way his hands moved to the light dusting of his stubble—the more Brock wanted to slam him up against a wall. But not _too_ hard.

As they chatted about things like their respective jobs—Steve was a commercial artist, and apparently doing okay despite 'starving artist' stereotypes—Steve caught Brock looking and asked, unimpressed, "So is 'tiny' your 'thing' then?"

Brock rolled his broad shoulders. "I'm starting to think it might be." Because, _hell_. _This_ guy. A slow grin spread across Brock's face as Steve ducked his head and glanced at him through his lashes, blue eyes and shy smile betraying interest.

Brock was about to string some words together to ask Steve back to his place when Steve beat him to it, laying his smaller hand over Brock's and asking, "Wanna get outta here?"

Brock had to blink a couple of times before he could reply, "Sure." He managed a broad, pleased smile. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours," Steve answered immediately, decisively. A sense of the unmovable tinged the set of his narrow shoulders, vaguely discordant. It was a good thing Brock didn't keep his place perpetually filthy like _Jack_ did. But then, Jack never really brought anyone home.

o0o

Somehow, one night turned into two weeks. Traded cell numbers. Coffee. Not that Brock was complaining. At _all_. Steve was hella cute, and Brock could literally pick him up with _one hand_. And maybe he wasn't overly experienced—at least not with _guys_?—but he took everything as a goddamned challenge, an opportunity to _prove_ himself, and that...well, it made for some pretty mind-blowing sex. So it was good. For Brock, anyway, and Steve wasn't complaining.

It just... It didn't make any sense.

"What the hell do you see in me, anyway?" he asked Steve late one Saturday morning as he traced the shape of his collarbone under his pale, nearly translucent skin.

Steve huffed out a laugh, squeezing his eyes shut and squirming a bit. "Brock, out of the two of us, I'm pretty sure I'm the one who should be asking that question." He turned his head on the pillow, meeting Brock's eyes with seriousness in his own. "You're jacked, rugged, _tall_." Brock wasn't really _that_ tall. But then, _everyone_ was tall compared to Steve. Except Tyrion.

"So you're saying you're shallow?" Brock grinned, splaying his huge hand across Steve's chest.

Steve huffed again, shifting on the bed so he was slightly more upright with the pillows under his bony shoulders. Challenge flashed in his eyes. "Maybe I am."

Brock shrugged, tipping his head to concede the point. "Fair enough." But then he twisted his lips thoughtfully and added, "I just don't seem like...the sort of guy who'd be your 'type', you know?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Why not? I'm allowed to like big, muscular, hairy dudes...in fact, I'm pretty sure if I looked—and probably _acted_—a bit more like one of those anime guys with the pointy chins, we'd be an actual gay couple _stereotype_."

Leaning in, Brock kissed the tip of Steve's chin. "'S pointy enough for me." And Steve laughed and didn't even swat him away. But stereotypes could be all cute and predictable in theory, but they didn't really tend to work out so neatly in real life. Pulling back, Brock let one side of his mouth tip upwards in a sly grin. "You tryin' to make someone jealous, Steve? Is that what I am? The jacked, hairy, uber-masculine dude you fuck to show 'em that you _can_?"

Steve's brow furrowed and he narrowed his eyes in a glare as he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. "I..." His eyes slid away, and he folded his thin arms across his chest. "There's no one left who _could_ be jealous."

Frowning, Brock sat against the headboard next to Steve. "I get the feeling there's more to that story." It wasn't that they hadn't talked about their pasts at all, but... They hadn't really talked about their pasts. Especially not relationships.

Steve sighed, scraped his teeth over his lower lip. "I was in a coma for five years—from the time I was nineteen until I was twenty-four. My girlfriend, Peggy—well, she and I had always said we'd get married: one of those 'highschool sweetheart' sort of things, but we were gonna make it work, damn what anyone said. And..." Steve's eyes were far away, deep grey clouds in a quiet sky. He sighed. His long fingers tightened their grip on his wiry little biceps. "She waited two full years for me: one before she admitted I wasn't going to just wake up, and another mourning me. And then she started dating our friend Gabe. By the time I _did_ wake up, they'd been married a year." Steve's shoulders rose and fell and he chewed on his lip. "She cried and told me she was sorry, but...how can she be sorry if she's happy with him? I told her not to be. I told Gabe not to be. I told them it was all right, that I was only sad I'd missed the wedding, 'cause I could have given the most embarrassing speech." Steve's voice roughened, but he just cleared his throat, swallowed, and went on, "Because, what kind of an asshole would I be if I expected her to just spend her whole life sitting by some coma guy's bed, holding his limp hand and telling him she wouldn't give up? What kind of a life would _that_ be?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

Brock shifted until his bicep pressed against Steve's. "Still hurts, to be _you_ in that situation, though."

Steve shot him a glare, eyes flashing. "Of course it hurts; I just don't have any right to it."

Brock raised an eyebrow, looking at Steve, considering. "You were in a fucking coma for five fucking years. I think you're entitled to be a _little_ upset by that." He chewed his lip. "I mean, unless you _planned_ the whole thing to get attention or some crap." Uncrossing his arms, Steve folded his hands in his lap and stared down at them. When he didn't say anything, Brock continued, "Anyway, I _figured_ you were mostly straight—not that that's a problem or anything."

Steve rolled his eyes and snorted, soft and annoyed. "_That's_ what you got out of that? That I'm not _gay_ enough 'cause I had a girlfriend?"

Brock shook his head. "No; that's not what I meant. I just..." He shrugged. "Look, I've been with girls too—there's nothing wrong with that, obviously. I just meant, I mean, you've never fucked a guy or had a guy fuck you. Not that you _have_ to. Ever. A lot of one-hundred-percent gay guys don't, apparently."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "What we've been doing...that doesn't count as 'fucking'?" The word sounded so wrong in Steve's mouth. And that was a pretty pathetic thought, considering what _else_ had been in Steve's mouth just the night before.

"It's only fucking when you put a cock _in_...something...that isn't a _mouth_," Brock tried, not entirely serious. But he did manage to make Steve blush, so that was a win. Except it was almost making Brock blush too. "Shut up," he said, even though Steve wasn't saying anything. Laughing, Brock shook his head. "I don't make these rules; this is just how it is."

"What about face fucking?" Blush or no, Steve somehow managed to say that in an entirely calm voice and without choking on the words.

"How do _you_ even know about that?" Brock shot back, trying for mock scandalized, but failing because he couldn't stop his shoulders from shaking with laughter. "Sweet, innocent guy like you who was gonna marry his highschool sweetheart?"

Steve held up his fingers, counting off the points. "Okay, one: hetero couples can do that too, so long as one of them has a penis. Two: I do know how to access the internet. And three: you're not the first guy I've been with." Then he blushed quite a bit harder, looked away, and mumbled, "I...back when I was in high school, I fooled around a bit with my best friend. Best _guy_ friend. Bucky." He peeked back at Brock out of the corner of his eye then quickly added. "This was before I even _met_ Peggy!"

"So you're telling me..." Brock said, leaning his head against the wall and lacing his fingers over his abdomen, "...that you've been with exactly two people before me, both of whom you met in high school." And this was the guy who'd picked _Brock_ up at the bar!

"I was in a _coma_ for five years!" Steve elbowed him in the ribs, hard. "And..." He ducked his head, voice becoming a mumble. "I actually met Bucky in, um, grade two."

A loud laugh burst from Brock, and he ruffled Steve's hair, grinning. "That's _adorable_. I'm getting the sweetest mental images here of you and your literal BFF fumbling at each other while snuggled into Transformers sleeping bags on the floor, eating Froot Loops out of the box, and watching Star Wars."

Steve grimaced a little sadly. "Ninja Turtles—his sleeping bag was Ninja Turtles, and mine was...just...plain blue? But we were _watching_ Transformers."

Brock nudged him with his shoulder. "So what the hell happened?" It sounded like one of those perfect little storybook romances. If anyone actually wrote stories about gay romance. That actually got published or produced or whatever. "You dump him for the girl?"

Steve shook his head. "No, no." He bit his lip. "We were just...we were _friends_ first; that was always the most important, no matter what. But he..." He blew out a breath. "He was interested in girls too, and so was I—and he knew that. So we weren't—we knew it wasn't going to be long term with us, not the sex thing anyway. We were only fourteen—well, he was fifteen I guess. And it was fun, it was good...but he wanted to date other people—girls, specifically—so..." Steve shrugged. "Like I said, we were friends first, so we were still friends."

Brock nudged Steve in the side. "But first, he fucked your face."

Steve bit his lip. "Um, other way around—but it was _his_ idea!" He was blushing bright like a fucking beacon but pressing his hands over his face to hide it. He groaned. "Why am I telling you any of this?"

Brock shrugged. "If you wanna know about my past—sex, girlfriends, boyfriends, childhood trauma, any of that—just ask."

"Okay." Pushing himself more upright, Steve turned slightly towards Brock. "What's the longest relationship you've been in?"

Brock blew out a breath. "Well, I don't often _do_ 'relationships', if you haven't already guessed." The way Steve was nodding suggested maybe he had. "But I was with this one girl for I think three months? Almost?" He shrugged. "Anyway, I've always been at least a _little_ bi, or, you know, bi _enough_. For girls. Or at least, girls like her. And she was _way_ too good for me, like, you have _no idea_ how amazing she was." He grinned broadly at the memory. "She was athletic, worked in security same as me, and she was _hot_ in a sort of terrifying kind of way—and also, like she wasn't even trying? She hardly wore any makeup," he explained, "and just put her hair up in a twist thing most days. No dresses or heels, no dangly earrings. But..." He grimaced. "It was pretty obvious after about a _week_ that we weren't gonna work out. She was all _responsible_, stable, principled—it wasn't even that we _fought_, because we barely did, but...I mean, maybe it woulda been better if we had?" He shook his head.

"It became pretty obvious that she was just staying with me out of pity," Brock continued. He wasn't even sure why Maria had agreed to date him in the first place—probably thought he had some sort of hidden depths. Which he really didn't. "And I don't mean—I don't think she was trying to 'fix' me or some shit like that, just...more that she wanted to be a bit of a positive influence, but also she didn't want to be the jerk, you know? So." He shrugged. "I was the jerk." He grimaced, shrugging again. "I'm pretty good at that." He made himself smile at Steve. "She's engaged now, real sensitive, supportive guy—the kind she can marry and settle down with like she wanted. So it's good." He nodded, half-smile more sincere in that it was a little wistful and a little sad. "It's good."

Steve put his hand over one of Brock's bigger ones, gently tracing the bones and veins with his fingertips as if he'd like to draw them—and he probably _did_. After a while, still watching his fingers move against the skin of Brock's hand, Steve said, "You gonna dump me for my own good too?"

Brock rolled his eyes, pulling his hand away from Steve so he could wrap his arm around Steve's shoulders and pull him against his side. "If some other guy—or girl—comes along, and they're the kind of person you _should_ be with, then maybe."

Squirming in Brock's grip, Steve let out an annoyed huff. "Since when do you get to decide the kind of person I should be with?"

"Look, Steve," Brock said, mildly exasperated, "you're an _artist_; you should be with some _sensitive_ dude who actually appreciates that shit."

Squirming out from under Brock's arm, Steve moved to straddle one of Brock's thighs, resting his hands against Brock's muscled torso and looking into his eyes, his own slightly narrowed. "You saying you don't appreciate my art?"

Brock laughed. "I'm saying I don't know _how_. It looks _fine_ to me—better than _I_ could do, but that's all I know." He shrugged, grinning lopsided and a touch apologetic. "And I just don't _care_. It's _nice_, but that's the end of it."

Dropping his gaze to Brock's chest, Steve twisted his fingers in the soft material of his white t-shirt. "I never said you had to be a professional art critic." And of course not, but... Steve still deserved someone better. That was painfully obvious.

"We should brush our teeth and get some breakfast," Brock offered. "Or, I guess, brunch." Still staring at his hands, Steve just nodded. Brock grinned, broad and wicked. "You wanna fuck my face first?"

Laughing, Steve collapsed against Brock's chest, breath and tears hot and damp through his shirt as he choked, "You're serious?"

Wrapping his arms around Steve's tiny frame, Brock hummed an affirmative. He'd seen Steve's cock, had it in his mouth even; he knew it wasn't quite big enough to scare him. "If you're up to it." Because, honestly, Steve was an asthmatic and all...but of course Steve just took it as a fucking _challenge_. Which was kind of how it was meant, since Brock was kind of a dick.

o0o

As they were eating brunch—if it could still be called 'brunch' at two o'clock in the afternoon—Brock asked, "So what ever happened to the BFF?"

"I don't know," Steve answered, curling in on himself a bit and poking at his pancakes with his fork. He sighed, turning the fork in his fingers. "He was—he was driving the car when..." He swallowed, eyes unfocused. "The accident—when I ended up in the coma. Apparently he...when he got out of the hospital, he just...disappeared." He set down his fork, resting his folded arms on the edge of the table. "Changed his number, left no forwarding address. He...he didn't have any family left, so." His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

Shit, that might even hurt more than the girlfriend moving on. At least Steve knew she was happy, right? Or, at least until he woke up and spoiled it all. So much for Best Friends _Forever_, though. Brock scratched at his stubble, shook his head. "Man, that sucks."

"Yeah, well..." Steve leaned forward a bit, arms nudging his plate toward the middle of the table. "I guess he felt guilty. I just—" He squeezed his eyes shut, taking careful breaths.

"You wish you could tell him you're all right." If the BFF was even still alive himself... No doubt Steve had already considered that.

Steve nodded, eyes still closed. Brock wanted to do or say something to help, but there wasn't anything. He kinda wished _he_ could at least be there for Steve, but they were never going to last; their relationship was based on exactly one thing: sex. And real relationships needed more than that.

o0o

In the end, it was someone else who came along for Brock, not Steve, but maybe that's what Steve had been expecting all along, because he wasn't surprised. Just angry. Disgusted. Probably a little hurt even. But not surprised.

He stood in the middle of his adorably _artist_ living room, thin arms tight across his chest, nodding. "So, this Pierce guy's gonna be your sugar daddy?" He looked away, making a scoffing sound in his throat. "He's certainly old enough to be."

Brock shrugged. "Guess so." Brock himself was hardly a 'boy' anymore, but Pierce was still twenty years his senior. "I mean, he's rich as sin, right? That's kind of the idea."

Steve was nodding again, head turned away, fingers trembling a bit where they gripped his biceps. "Well, good for you—congratulations or whatever." His voice shook, not quite quavering.

They weren't friends first. This wasn't going to be a 'still friends after' sort of thing. They'd never had enough in common to be friends at all. Hell, they'd never had _anything_ in common. And Brock didn't even know how to be a friend; even Jack just put up with him because he didn't have enough social skills to befriend anyone else. All Brock knew how to be was...a jerk. "Look, buddy." He leaned back against the edge of Steve's small round kitchen table, hands gripping the edge until it bit a little into his palms. "This wasn't ever going to be some epic love story—I'm just some guy you picked up in a bar who liked how your ass looked in your jeans." That wasn't exactly true, wasn't the _whole_ truth, but it was true enough. "So go pick up some _other_ guy. Or a girl. Or whatever. Maybe you'll find your epic love story." Steve should have that. He was an _artist_. He deserved it.

"What about yours?" Steve asked, looking at him again, quiet concern in his pretty blue eyes.

"My what?" Brock twisted his lips in confusion.

"_Your_ 'epic love story'," Steve clarified, unfolding one arm enough to gesture towards Brock. "You don't think you could love Pierce, do you? Or that he could love you?"

Brock shook his head, smiling crookedly, and answering honestly enough, "I don't think I get one, Steve." He shrugged, unconcerned. "What would I do with a love story anyway? All that sappy angst and staring into each other's eyes and making heartfelt promises?" He shuddered, making a disgusted sound. "It's too Disney or something—like the kind of crap movies you like. With the _singing_ too."

It was kind of a low blow, since Brock had never really said anything when it had been Steve's turn to pick a movie, but Steve just kind of half smiled and said quietly, "You're such an asshole, Brock."

Brock grinned. "I know. _Exactly_."

When Steve didn't say anything else, Brock turned to look at the door, considering his escape, but then Steve said, "Brock—" and took a half a step towards him.

Brock met Steve's eyes. "What?"

Steve took another step. "Since _you're_ breaking up with _me_, I think it's only fair..." He sucked in a breath. "That I get to ask—"

"For?" One last kiss? One last quickie?

A muscle worked in Steve's jaw, and then he closed the distance between them, slamming all of his extremely inconsiderable weight into Brock's chest and wrapping his arms tightly around him. "Just a hug," he mumbled into Brock's shirt.

Chuckling in confusion, Brock shook his head. "Aren't you supposed to be mad at me?"

"I am." But Steve pressed closer, shaking a bit.

"Okay then." Wrapping one hand around Steve's shoulders, Brock petted Steve's hair gently with the other, reminding himself he shouldn't kiss it. Even if he kinda really wanted to.

Finally, Steve pulled back, fingers gripping Brock's biceps, meeting Brock's gaze with fierce eyes. "Be careful, all right? Don't let this guy hurt you—I know you're big and tough, but he's got money and power, so...just..." He swallowed, took a breath. "_Be careful_."

Brock swallowed as well. He couldn't think of any way to make a joke, to laugh off Steve's very valid concern. So he just said, "I will."

o0o

And he _was_ careful. Or, careful enough. He kept his job, kept his own apartment, regardless of what 'Alexander'—never 'Al' or 'Alex' or 'Lex'...the pretentious douchebag no doubt added 'the Great' after it in his head each time—wanted, no matter how many times he shook his head and chuckled, longsufferingly indulgent.

And while he was at it, he kept an eye on Steve. Just...now and then. To see how he was doing. It wasn't _stalking_. It was just checking up on him, to make sure he was okay. Like he'd done with Maria, at least until she got engaged—though he'd worked with Maria, so that'd been a little different. A little easier to keep track of her without feeling like, well, a stalker.

But that's how he knew, some months later, that the BFF came back. Brock wasn't sure how or why, but it didn't really matter, because he _did_. And after all the hugging and crying and _yelling_ and more hugging and crying, they settled in to being very disgustingly blissfully happy together. With public hand-holding, dopey gazing, sloppy make outs, and all.

Steve got his epic love story after all. Brock wasn't exactly a fan of love stories, but...this one made him smile.

o0o

**'Jack' is Jack Rollins, Brock's STRIKE buddy in 'Captain America: the Winter Soldier'.**

**'Gabe' is Gabe Jones, Howling Commando in 'Captain America: the First Avenger'.**

**'Maria' is meant to be Maria Hill. Her fiance is meant to be Sam Wilson.**

**I did not _intentionally_ write Brock as aromantic, but after reading it over I suppose he could be read that way. Headcanon to your heart's content.**

**To my knowledge, I've never had anyone write a remix of one of my fics, but in case anyone was so inclined, I'd absolutely freaking _love_ it if someone were to write Bucky's pov here. Or Peggy's, though that would probably hurt more. Or anyone's, really.**

o0o


End file.
